After the Invasion
by Balancing Act
Summary: The sequel to After the Prophecies. The Morindim have been nearly wiped out and the threat to the West has gone... or so it might seem. For one must not forget that the leader of the Morindim, one with a power greater than imaginable, has vanished...
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings._

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_Ah, the sequel has finally come, and with it some surprises, both good and bad, that you may not have anticipated. After the Invasion is the sequel to After the Prophecies, and it depicts the time after the Morindim have been nearly wiped out and the threat to the West has gone... or so it might seem. For one must not forget that the leader of the Morindim was not destroyed, but escaped unharmed. The Morindim leader with a face but no name, a power greater than any mortal man's, and an unknown enemy whom he is chasing. For as the Dals revealed to their emissary and once-seer, Cyradis, "There is one who has great power and who was thought to be dead by all. He is searching for one who is hiding in the west."_

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**Chapter 1**

Kheva shuffled his feet idly, wondering why the day seemed so boring, why everything around him seemed to fade into one long blur of monotonous activity. He ran an absent hand through his dark, wavy hair, wondering if he could throw all these overdressed courtiers out on the basis that it was his birthday and that he shouldn't be disturbed by the petty little problems that are brought before every court in the world. Even Drasnia had those types of people, unfortunately. He sighed, slumping back down on the throne as he twirled his crown idly on one finger. 

"Pay attention, dear," murmured his mother in his ear. She sat beside him, dressed in a dark lavender gown, looking serene and beautiful, as always. Vella had worn lavender... 

Knowing where that thought would take him, he jerked his mind back and replied quietly, "Why? It's not like any of these trivial problems are actually serious." 

"It's always nice to make a good impression." 

Kheva snorted quietly. "Mother, these courtiers want one of two things. Either they want me to show them favor and increase their status, or they want me to carelessly sign some petition that will give them monopoly over whatever market they specialize in." 

"Bad habits stick with you, dear." 

"Yes, Mother," he sighed, and sat up straight, cramming the crown back on his head. His thoughts, however, kept wandering, however he tried to pay attention. Why couldn't he concentrate today? Maybe it was because it was his birthday. One more year and he would be twenty. Ayan would be seventeen next year, the age he was when he had met her. But now she was either fifteen or sixteen, depending on when she was born. His mind went to the message he had received from the court of Gar Og Nadrak. Drosta had died a year ago, and there had been the usual scramble for the throne. One of Drosta's illegitimate sons had turned up out of nowhere, and somehow managed to gain the throne. He had heard rumors that Ayan had been deeply involved with that, and he was fairly sure they were true. That would be the sort of thing she would do. 

Whether she was involved or not, though, the new king, Rekev lek Thun, was said to be very different from his erratic sire. He was rumored to be shrewd and cautious, and had managed to bully everyone in Gar Og Nadrak into submission with such a civilized air that even his enemies couldn't get a hold on him. Kheva had heard he was slippery, very slippery, and didn't seem to be subject to any of the weaknesses that a Nadrak would normally have. Since the messenger had been Yarblek, the famous(or infamous) partner of Prince Kheldar, Kheva was strongly inclined to think that this Rekev would be a very good king. Yarblek approved of him, at least, and whatever else you might say about Yarblek, he was a good judge of character. 

Yarblek had also sent word that an ambassador from Rekev's new court would be coming. He hadn't named anyone, but Kheva had noticed the slight gleam in his eye, and a sudden wild hope had sprung into his brain. Kheva had learned from his spies that Yarblek was desperately trying to buy Ayan, and he wasn't sure whether that was because her mother had brought him such a wealthy profit, or because he thought he just might have a _royal_ buyer for her. Rekev seemed to be holding her ownership firmly, though. Kheva was slightly suspicious about this. Rekev was only twenty-one, after all, and young girls were sometimes so carried away by good looks that they couldn't make rational decisions. He shifted uncomfortably, and ran his hand through his hair again, sliding his crown off, not wanting to think about it. 

After all, the whole point was that Drosta had found Ayan a useful ambassador, and if Ayan had really been influential in getting Rekev onto the throne, he just might send her as an ambassador as well... 

Kheva sighed wearily. _This_ was why he couldn't pay attention to the courtiers, really. The very thought of seeing Ayan again was enough to sever his mind from any rational connections. He missed her, with her sharp comments and cutting remarks about his intelligence, instincts, and decisions. Belar knew why, but he did. 

"Kheva!" his mother's hiss interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up with a start, catching sight of the three messengers who had been standing near the door, waiting to be acknowledged, while he had been half-dozing. 

Hurriedly, he motioned for them to come forward before another courtier could start in on their ridiculous propositions. The first, dressed in the sober Rivan gray, stepped forward, holding a sealed letter. "A missive from the Rivan King, your Majesty." He walked up to the throne to hand it to Kheva, bowing. "He sends his greetings." 

"And send him mine," Kheva replied automatically, turning the letter over in his hands. He looked at the second messenger, a shaven-headed Nyissan who was shivering, his iridescent robe pulled closely to his body. Peering at him, Kheva decided that maybe some of that shivering was from the chill of the Drasnian winter in the air, and not just from the various substances coursing through his veins. 

The Nyissan bowed, his tenor voice revealing that this was _not_ one of Salmissra's eunuchs. "Greetings to the throne of Drasnia from the Handmaiden of Issa. Eternal Salmissra wishes to inform you that a full shipment of osthra has departed from Sthiss Tor a few days ago, headed up the coast for the Gulf of Cherek and the mouth of the Mrin River, where it will sail up to Boktor. It may be here in a matter of weeks." 

"Oh, good," sighed Kheva in relief. Osthra was the cure for a disease that had struck a number of the larger cities in Drasnia recently, and though the plague wasn't spreading, there was still a large number of people who had been struck ill by it and were still sick. As osthra was made from a certain plant that grew in the jungles of the Snake People, Salmissra had set many of her people to diluting its sap and making osthra. "Tell Eternal Salmissra that her help in this matter is greatly appreciated, the full sums for the cures shall be paid, and the throne of Drasnia hopes that this shall further strengthen the bond between the Land of the Snake People and Drasnia." 

The Nyissan bowed, and removed himself from the king's presence, as the third messenger, dressed in sober Sendarian brown, took his place, bowing slightly. "I'm here to inform your Majesty that King Fulrach has finally reopened the Great North Road, and the cattle fair in Muros will commence this next spring." 

Kheva repressed another relieved sigh, nodding thanks to the messenger instead. After the Morindim invasion of one and a half years ago, in which they had made it all the way from the lands of the Morindim, through the Forest of Nadrak, down the North Caravan Route and the Great North Road to the pass through the mountain ranges that stretched north from Ulgoland. There, they had been stopped in their tracks by a singularly spectacular sacrifice, made by Aldur's apostate disciple Zedar who had asked for his master's forgiveness and then willed himself out of existence. This action had effectively obliterated the Morindim army, but not its leader, for some reason unknown, but the invasion attempt had failed, and there was no more threat to Sendaria. 

However, Fulrach, king of Sendaria, had closed down the Great North Road anyway, maybe for fear of other enemies, or merely for a time to let the Sendarians recuperate from the terror and the dread that had no doubt afflicted them when they heard an army was marching on their peaceful country. This decision, of course, had made the Algars sullen about their loss of a cattle market, and a major upheaval in Tolnedra, which mostly consisted of the merchant lords shouting in anguish about how Sendaria couldn't do this. No one had listened to the merchant lords anyway, not even Varana, Emperor of Tolnedra, because everyone knew how they were about a profit, especially one like the cattle fair, slipping through their fingers. 

Kheva nodded to the Sendarian, and he bowed and left. "Now," announced the young Drasnian king, rising to his feet, "the court is hereby adjourned until tomorrow, when it will come back in session." 

There were cries from those courtiers who hadn't gotten a chance to spout their personal nonsense, but Kheva ignored them, assisting his mother to the door, fingering the message from Belgarion even more eagerly. Belgarion hardly ever sent him letters, since he was so busy writing letters to Polgara and her family, Belgarath, Zakath, and Urgit, all of whom needed to know what was going on for various reasons, but the main one being that Belgarion was very close to these people. 

As soon as he was in his room, Kheva tore the letter open, unfolded the parchment, and began to read. 

~*~

To King Kheva, Ruler of Drasnia, from Belgarion, King of Riva, Overlord of the West, Lord of the Western Sea: 

I hope that's satisfied everyone's tedious need for formality. You've noticed I've dropped that ostentatious "Godslayer" part of my title. I don't really like people gawking at me wherever I go, and hearing them all hiss, "the Godslayer!" behind my back is really very unsettling. Of course, they probably still will do so, but I won't have to look at the word staring up at me from every official document I have to sign. True, it helps with intimidation, but we're kind of going for world peace here, if I follow Eriond. And if I do have to intimidate someone, I won't bother with a measly little thing like a title, I'll simply hang them up in the air and keep them there. 

Silk says I'm becoming more like Grandfather every day. I suppose all sorcerers eventually develop certain habits, like grousing about little things that don't really matter. You've heard that Velvet's pregnant with their second child, of course. You probably knew even before she did. I hope this labor won't be as hard as the last one. It was really a hard blow to everyone when they lost the child. 

At least Zakath's heir was born healthy and sound. He's really very proud of the little boy, and mentions him in each of his letters. Terath is following in the steps of his father, before that incident when he was nineteen. You know about that, too, of course. Zakath's not really secretive about it any more, not since he married Cyradis. He's put it behind him, and now he's learning to be a emperor that will probably be the greatest that Mallorea's ever seen. He's not cold-bloodedly looking for power any more. It was a long time ago, that incident where he made the decision to come to Kell with us. It really changed his entire life. Actually, his entire life was probably changed when he took Ce'Nedra, Polgara, Durnik, and Eriond captive during the Battle of Thull Mardu. Not only did he make the EVENT possible, but he met the future god of Angarak, and I have a feeling Eriond had a very distinct hand in what happened. Not to mention that coming into contact with four of the instruments of Prophecy yanked him out of the camp of the Dark Prophecy and into ours. 

But enough reminiscing about the past. You were just a baby then, I remember, and I was just sixteen. Eriond was five years older than you, and you two used to play together. Polgara told us about the cushion incident. He was also there when you found out that your father had died. That young god of Angarak really had quite a hand in all our lives, though we didn't really realize it at the time. To us he was just an innocent little boy who happened to be very dear to all of us. Now, of course, he's the sole god of the world. Or this world. According to Aldur, there are other worlds, too, and that's where the rest of the gods went. Or were supposed to go. Aldur did drop back shortly to forgive Zedar, though I suspect that was an arrangement between Eriond and him. Eriond did seem rather pleased when Zedar came up out of his imprisonment. Aldur's also probably got some way of communicating with his disciples, even though neither his spirit nor his body are present in this world. 

It was probably for the best that they left. The Nyissans were a little disgruntled, of course, and the Chereks are probably hoping to make up some ridiculous idea about Belar still talking to them so they can find an excuse to go raid someone else's coast. You know Chereks. But there's no more bickering between gods, worries about each of them getting offended. Especially Mara. That was a temperamental god. Only after his people were almost wiped out, though, when he could wallow in self-pity. I suspect that they still watch over their people, though. Mara wouldn't gloat over Relg so much if he wasn't going to watch over Taiba's children. They probably pass on word to Eriond to help their people or offer advice when they need to. 

Aunt Pol and Durnik are doing well, and Belgarik and Poldara are growing bigger. They're seven and a half now, the same age as Beldaran, and they're constantly moving. When Aunt Pol visits Riva, Belgarik, Poldara, and Beldaran run off somewhere to play and be seven-year-olds. 

Garion 

Postscript: Has anyone started nagging at you to get married yet? If not, enjoy the freedom while you can. 

~*~

Kheva stared at the postscript, his grin fading. Getting _married_? He bit his lip and began to pace. True, he was nineteen today, and a lot of kings were married at nineteen, but that was no reason they needed to _rush_ this kind of thing. Even though the succession was still in the balance. Even though, if he died, his mother would be hard-pressed to have another child. Even though, from what he'd read of Polgara's story, she favored parading girls in front of a would-be groom until he chose one. Even though everyone would suddenly be very interested in him and who he would marry: the Prophecy, Eriond, Polgara, even Garion... 

Suddenly Kheva felt very nervous. 

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_Here's a good site for funny quotes on the Belgariad and Mallorean: "http://www.geocities.com/gentlebeldin/quotes.html". I've also started working on the formatting for After the Prophecies, too._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings. _

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You may all start screaming at me. Thank you. Yes, yes, it's been a while, and probably the only thing that drove me to jump over my writer's block on this story was thinking of how I_ would feel if an author delayed and delayed and delayed and never got the next chapter out. So, here is my attempt, and with it went a good hour or so of time when I was _supposed_ to be studying. We're looking in on Urgit, Prala, and their little son, as they make a few changes in the Drojim._

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**Chapter 2**

"Aaaah!" yelled Urgit, jumping out of the way just in time as a sheet of red gold clanged to the floor. "Be _careful_ with that!" 

"Sorry, Your Majesty!" shouted the workman who was suspended from the huge vaulted roof by a set of ropes. "We didn't know you were coming in." 

Urgit surveyed his throne room with a sharp eye. There were huge piles of the battered sheets of red gold from the ceiling, and barrels of the jewels that had been pried out of the walls and columns were set beside them. Oskatat was standing nearby, watching the wealth and the workers carefully. The Murgos were no saints, even with a new god and a reformed priesthood, and without an overseer, some of that wealth might very well happen to end up inside the workmen's pockets. Not that they weren't getting paid; the wages Urgit paid were decent enough. 

And, Urgit thought, built up enough to subtract a substantial amount from his treasury. There was, after all, a great deal of workers needed to strip the entire Drojim Palace. 

More workers were wheeling granite blocks in, and stonemasons armed with mortar and their tools were building a layer of stone over the old, pockmarked walls. To add to the hurrying workers and stonemasons, there were sculptors prying the jewels out of the throne itself, and the blood-red drapes previously behind the throne were being replaced by ones of a royal purple. 

"Well?" asked the king of the Murgos, turning to the young man behind him. "What do you think?" 

Eriond smiled, looking around the room. "It's certainly an improvement," he said in his light voice. "How are you going to decorate the walls?" 

"I was thinking about drapes of a lighter purple, swooping from the vaulted ceiling. Do you think tapestries would be a nice touch?" 

Eriond shook his head. "Let's keep it simple. You've got other rooms for tapestries. We want to keep this one with the colors gray and purple. It'll be a relief after the glaring blood-red and the jewels." 

"Oh, yes," Urgit agreed. "Some of that," he gestured to the sheets of gold and the jewels, "is going towards the redecoration of the rest of the palace. Really, my predecessors have had exceedingly bad taste in this kind of thing. You've seen the outer walls." He shuddered. "I'm having men scald the paint off with this acid some clever Sendar in Sulturn invented. Thank the gods for that. Without it this monstrosity would be a continual eyesore to everyone from miles around." 

"Are you painting it any other color after the old paint is scalded off?" Eriond asked curiously. "I think white would be nice... or maybe pale blue." 

Urgit shot Eriond a wry glance. "Don't you think we've got enough pale blue, Eriond? After all, every single temple in Cthol Murgos, Gar og Nadrak, Mishrak ac Thull, and Mallorea is decorated in pale blue and white." 

Eriond smiled gently. "It's such a beautiful color." 

"And you, of course, are not biased at all in this matter," Urgit said, rolling his eyes. "All hail the god of Angarak, whose essence is pale blue and who insists on swathing every inch of civilization in cloth of that color." 

"I don't think I would go that far, Urgit," Eriond said. 

"Oh, yes?" Urgit asked. 

"Though..." mused Eriond, "it is an idea." 

"Ah... Eriond, why don't we see the rest of the palace now?" 

"I wonder where you would get that much cloth... maybe I could set all the Thulls to raising sheep, all the Nadraks to shearing them, all the Murgos to spinning thread, and all the Malloreans to weaving cloth." 

"Eriond, are we getting a little carried away here?" 

"And I'm sure my old friend King Urgit would be _thrilled_ to pay for it." Eriond flashed him a grin. 

Urgit's expression was anguished. "You wouldn't _really_ do that to me, would you?" he pleaded. "That would lay bare my treasury!" 

"What do you think _this_ is for, Urgit?" Eriond waved an arm, encompassing the mounds of blood-red sheets and barrels of jewels. "Even after you redecorate the palace, you'll still have the wealth here of several generations. You'll have enough money to buy a monopoly on anything you want." 

Urgit's eyes widened, then his expression grew sly. "Well, well, well..." he said, rubbing his hands together. 

Eriond sighed at the Murgo king's expression, and turned to go through the door, when a small blue projectile shot out of nowhere, the blur slamming into Eriond's legs and clinging there. 

"Errond! Errond!" a voice said, and Eriond smiled and knelt down to be on the same level as Urgit's young son. 

"Cthaldar!" he greeted the little boy, smiling at how much the name Urgit had chosen for his son resembled that of his brother. "How are you doing?" 

"Big bad gold come crashing down," the child informed him. "Mama says Cthaldar can't go in the throne room, because Cthaldar gets hit on the head." 

Eriond smiled. "Does Cthaldar speak in third person?" 

"Third person?" Cthaldar asked. 

"It's when you use the person's name instead of 'I' or 'you'," Eriond told him. 

Cthaldar nodded. "Like when you look down on people, instead of looking from inside them." 

Eriond blinked, then recovered. "Exactly." 

"No, I don't do that," Cthaldar said gravely. "It's only when Mama tells me something in a huge loud voice like Cthaldar Come Here. Then I do what Mama says real fast. Father says that Mama been spending too much time with western ladies, and when Father says that Mama starts to talk louderer at him, and he says she's just like Ceneder. Who's Ceneder, Errond?" 

"I think your father means Ce'Nedra. She's a friend of your Mama." 

"And does she talk real loud?" 

"Oh, yes," Eriond nodded. "Ce'Nedra has quite a voice." 

"Does _she_ yell at Father?" 

"Well, she yells at Father's friend. She's married to Father's friend." 

"Father's friend?" Cthaldar wrinkled his small nose. "Which Father's friend?" 

"He's a king too, just like your father. I'm sure your father's told you about Garion." 

Cthaldar's dark eyes went very wide. "The tall man with the big huge sword that turns blue as the sky?" 

"And perhaps a bit bluer," Eriond told him. 

An amazed expression went across Cthaldar's face. "Wow. Garion must be real powyful. But y'know what?" Cthaldar leaned close confidentially. "If Ce'Nedra's voice is half as loud as Mama's, I think Garion is most powyful 'cause he married her." 

Eriond laughed. "I'm sure he would agree with you." 

Cthaldar nodded. "And Mama's voice is _real_ loud. Espektually when she wants Cthaldar to stay out of the throne room." 

"I heard that, Cthaldar Urgas!" a voice said from behind them, and Cthaldar jumped, then looked innocent. 

"Who, me, Mama? I didn't say nothing." 

Prala, queen of Cthol Murgos, came sweeping up in a long western-style gown of light purple. She curtseyed before Eriond, her eyes twinkling, then came forward and embraced him. "It's good to see you, Eriond. I'm glad you waylaid my son before he somehow by the strangest of chances found himself in the throne room." She shot a glance at Cthaldar. 

The little boy protested, "I wouldn't have gone into the big bad throne room!" She gave him a look, and he squirmed. "Well, maybe I would've. But only to watch Father!" 

"I'm _sure_ you would have, Cthaldar," Prala told him. "Not, of course, to watch the fascinating process of men prying off gold of the ceilings and walls, or hear the huge clatter as they drop them on the floor." 

Cthaldar shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no, Mama." 

Prala sighed. "You're too much like your uncle. And _you_!" she said firmly to Urgit, who was coming out of the throne room toward them. "You know better than to go stand right in the middle of all that, when gold is dropping like hailstones." 

"It wouldn't have hurt me," Urgit protested. "Not when Eriond's here." 

"Don't depend on a god to keep you from getting your silly head brained," Prala scolded him. "Don't go in there again unless the workmen on the ceiling are done." 

Urgit sighed. "Yes, dear." He held out his arms absentmindedly to Cthaldar, and the little boy climbed into them. "Do you want to go to your temple, Eriond? I would go with you. It's been a while since I've been there, and I could make a formal presence." 

Eriond sighed. "It's not exactly a compelling or annoying duty anymore, Urgit." 

Urgit grinned. "Yes, but just the notion of a absolutely pure building makes my natural instincts twitch. Do you know what absolute innocents your priests are?" 

"My former Grolims, you mean? After _their_ past?" 

"Well, after their "rebirth" into your faithful followers, leaving the corrupt evil of Torak behind, they're completely innocent. And all that money in the treasury..." Urgit's nose was twitching. 

Eriond sighed. "You'll never change, will you, Urgit?" 

Urgit grinned. "I certainly hope not. Think of how many people would be completely and utterly convinced that nothing in the world could be depended on any more." 

"That's what happened when Silk announced his engagement," Eriond told him. 

"How are they?" Urgit asked curiously. 

"Velvet's pregnant again," Prala said. "I was going to tell you, but I had to go looking for Cthaldar." 

"Is it..." Urgit bit his lip. "Is the pregnancy proceeding along normal lines?" 

A momentary flash of pain crossed Eriond's face. All of them had been there when or after they had found out that Velvet had miscarried. For several days everyone had worn black, and Velvet's close friends had been by her side. Silk had spoken very little, but Urgit had done the best he could to help his brother. Even now Silk wasn't quite the same, though he seemed so outwardly. Maybe this baby would heal their pain. 

"It seems to be," the young god of Angarak said finally. "Velvet's having cramps more than usual, but Polgara would know more about that than I would. Our Margravine is very slender, and though she's not as small as Ce'Nedra, she still has trouble in childbirth." Eriond took a deep breath. "We can only hope." 

They bowed their heads. Even Cthaldar was quiet for a moment, then he asked, "Mama, do I get to go to Errond's temple too?" 

Prala smiled at her young son. "Why don't we?" She looked to Eriond, and he nodded. Turning, she led the way down the corridor. 

"A visit of the royal family," Urgit said ironically as they strode down the now-cheerfully-lit halls. "Once in a millennium, this rare occurrence is a sight to behold." 

"Would you _stop_ that?" Prala asked. "I don't need our every deed put into proclamation." 

"Thus speaks Queen Prala of Cthol Murgos, mighty ruler of the realm. All shalt hear her declaration and bow to her might." 

"UrGIT!" Prala's voice went up one octave. 

"See?" Cthaldar said to Eriond. "Mama's voice is real loud." 

"Ah, the famed vocalizations of the Queen Prala, Warrior Lady, are famous throughout the land for their ringing beauty." 

"Urgit, would you please shut _up_?" 

"Her wrath is terrible to behold. All bow before Queen Prala, Warrior Lady, Voice of Destruction, Hand of Power, Ruler of--" 

"Urgit," Prala said icily, "you sound like Salmissra's eunuchs." 

"Ah," Urgit said slyly, "but I'm not in the least like a eunuch, am I?" 

Prala went bright red. 

"One for you," Eriond told him. 

"Got her that time, didn't I?" Urgit asked his son. 

Cthaldar frowned. "I don't get it, Father. How is a eunuch different?" 

Urgit looked at his three-year-old son speculatively. "Ah... I'll tell you when you're older." He grinned at Prala. "Your dear Mama here, though, is intricately aware of the differences." 

"_Urgit_!" Prala gasped, finally finding her voice. 

Urgit looked at her in mock astonishment. "Why, Prala, you're as red as a beet. Whatever reason would you have to turn such an unbecoming shade?" 

Eriond smiled to himself, listening to them. Soon they were in sight of his temple, a glittering structure plated in shimmering white tiles with pale blue drapes on the archways. They entered into the quiet interior, where white-robed priests walked slowly here and there, and an altar covered with roses stood in the center. Prala and Urgit stopped talking, their conversation gradually dying in the peace that filled their hearts as they entered Eriond's temple. 

They stood in the interior for a moment, feeling contentment and joy wash over them, their worries and troubles slipping from their minds. 

A brilliant white light shimmered around Eriond's face and form as he sparkled with radiance. His steps slow and graceful, timeless and patient, he walked over to the altar, and chose three roses in his slender glowing hands: a dark maroon one for Urgit, a beautiful red one for Prala, and a small white one for Cthaldar. Turning to face them, he smiled, his face filled with gentleness. 

They knelt before him as he came to them, and he presented each with their flowers. 

"A royal rose for thee, o king who hath stepped past his ancestor's prejudices and given Cthol Murgos a chance at hope and renewal," he murmured to Urgit, his light voice ringing with the archaic words. He handed him his rose, and Urgit bowed his head before his radiant god. 

"A scarlet rose for thee, o beautiful girl, one who shalt grace the halls of the new palace of white and lavendar, and shalt be the right hand of the king, to support him with a will of steel." He gave Prala her rose, and she lowered her beautiful eyes submissively. 

"And a rose of white for thee, o innocent child, one who shalt follow in the steps of his father and his mother, and shalt continue to lead this nation in its great path." He gave Cthaldar his white rose, and the little boy stared at it in wonder. 

Then they rose slowly, and joined their hands, and all three blazed forth in incandescent glory. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings. The plot is mine. _

Yes, Behold the Void is probably right, Eriond wouldn't have erased their memories. I'll go back and change that. How long has it been? Quite a while, I think. Around two months? I was actually preoccupied with my original story... and school, of course. Anyway, let's go to Zakath. I also left a thread hanging from After the Prophecies, I found. Besides the whole issue of the identity of HIM, of course. 

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Zakath's boots tapped on the floor as he paced the stone room restlessly, stepping around the low couches and the small table, crossing in front of the cold fireplace and back. His face was preoccupied, and his eyebrows were drawn down in a frown, irritation showing at his mouth. The birdsong from outside and the warm golden sunlight pouring in the window did nothing to appease his mood, and he kept on pacing. 

Cyradis, lounging on one of the couches, was watching Terath, their young son, play with a ball on the floor. Her face was turned towards her son, but the slight flicker of her eyes as she watched Zakath was noticeable. 

Terath giggled as his ball went rolling, and toddled after it on sturdy legs. He caught his ball in Zakath's path, and the Mallorean emperor was forced to stop pacing in an effort to avoid tripping over his son. Terath looked up at him, an innocent smile on his face. "Dada?" he asked. 

Zakath smiled at him despite himself, and picked up his son, carrying him over to Cyradis. "Here, Terath. Play with mama." 

"Mama," Terath said, grabbing the hem of Cyradis' soft white gown. 

Zakath slumped down on the couch beside the young, beautiful Dal, his irritation back on his face. "It's been a year, Cyradis. And he hasn't spoken." 

"You could always resort to the finer arts, your Imperial Majesty," Zakath's adviser spoke up, from where he was standing, ever watchful, in the corner. 

"Torture, you mean?" Zakath asked. "I would, but-" 

"No," Cyradis interrupted firmly. "No torture." 

"And Eriond says no, as well." Zakath scowled. "Why can't you both see? He'll never tell us anything this way." 

"He shalt never tell thee anything if he's tortured, either," Cyradis insisted. 

"He's a Melcene, Cyradis. A Melcene bureaucrat. He's never been tortured in his life. He'd tell us everything if you'd only give me an hour. We could use Senji. Senji wouldn't do any lasting damage, and he'd still tell us." 

Cyradis shook her head. "Thou hast already used Senji, Zakath. Right after we captured the Melcene, thou hadst Senji question him." 

"And he told us everything," Zakath said. "Well, almost everything."

"Going over the facts might help, your imperial majesty." The advisor stepped forward from the corner, his sober face inquiring. "If you put together what we know and what we don't know, it might help clear your mind." 

Zakath took a deep breath and massaged his temples. "You're right." He sat for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then stood up again, resuming his pacing. "It was five years ago or so when HE appeared among the Morindim and the Karands, with HIS servant. HIS servant was supposedly a renegade Grolim with a talent for illusions, and he used the illusion of a horde of demons in order to back up HIS power." He looked at the adviser. "Everything so far?" 

The adviser nodded. 

"HE gathered the Morindim and Karands about HIM, as well as various other people of different races, namely Angarak and Melcene. HE offered the Morindim the western continent, the Karands back their seven kingdoms, and told the Angaraks and Melcenes that HE was out for purging the world of all other races. HE trained them to fight with knives of poison, in a method that eliminated all hand-to-hand combat. HE had such power over them that they followed HIS every command. 

"HE gathered them into a great army and dressed them in black. Then HE sent the Karands to attack Mal Zeth from the Karandese kingdoms, to distract the Mallorean army from HIS real campaign. HE sailed more Karands down to Cthol Murgos to burn Rak Cthan and blockade Rak Urga to capture Urgit and distract the Murgo army. Then HE and HIS main force of Morindim marched downward, burning the Forest of Nadrak." 

He stopped for a moment, and the adviser nodded. 

He resumed pacing. "They burned Yar Gurak, marked through the Escarpment down the North Caravan Route toward Boktor. From there they turned and took the Great North Road southwest to Sendaria. They grew the poison in one of the Karand kingdoms. That was all Mescan told us." He slammed his fist down on a table nearby. "He won't say what HIS real motives are, or who HE is. He won't tell us anything about HIM." He slumped. "He insists he doesn't know anything." 

"Maybe he's telling the truth," Cyradis put in. "This is no ordinary man. HE would hardly allow underlings to know his _real_ reasons." 

"But the identity of HIM? It's not possible for him to be ignorant of that!" Zakath pressed his fingers against his temples, hard. 

"It _is_ a rather irregular case, your Imperial Majesty," the adviser ventured. "In fact, the only accurate sources of information have right now--" he nodded to Cyradis, "--are the Dals." 

"The Dals?" Zakath's head came up. "That's true, isn't it?" 

"It's been a long time since an Emperor of Mallorea and a spokesman of the Dals have met," the adviser suggested. 

"You're right. How could I have neglected that? I ordered the autonomy of the Protectorates, but then I just sat there and ignored them." He turned to Cyradis anxiously. "You don't think they'll assume I'm only coming to them because I need their help, will they?"

Cyradis smiled. "We can see to thy heart, Zakath. Thou needst not to fear that we shalt see thee as thou art not." 

"Good." Zakath began pacing, faster than before. "So we invite them here to meet with us for a council. We make sure they've got every comfort-no, that won't work, they hate ostentatious display, and it would look like we were showing off. Fine, we treat them with respect and courtesy, and we find out what they know about HIM." 

"What's this about HIM?" Senji strolled in through the door. 

"Senji, there you are," Zakath said absentmindedly, his eyes still distant. "How are things in the west?" 

"Well, actually, fairly well. Salmissra has sent osthra to relieve the disease in Drasnia, and the Great North Road is open again. Rekev lek Thun is working out very well in Gar og Nadrak, with the help of our young friend Ayan, and Urgit is stripping the Drojim of its horrible decoration. He's going to have quite a bit of money." 

Zakath rolled his eyes. "And by honest means, too. How astonishing." 

"Cho-Hag got sick last winter, but it's far from fatal. Still, the Algars are taking that as a warning that their king isn't as robust as he used to be." Senji laughed softly. "They tend to forget he's a cripple once he gets astride a horse, and it's only when he's ill that they realize he's got a bigger disadvantage than most men." 

"Hettar?" asked Zakath. 

"He's as close to Cho-Hag as he was before he got married, and is helping him through everything. Adara and Hettar are staying with Cho-Hag and Silar, so we can hope that the Chief of Clan Chiefs will be healthy for many years yet." Senji thought. "What else? Ah, yes. Geran just turned ten, and Garion's having him tutored in statecraft. Geran isn't too pleased with that, but Garion also has started Barak teaching him how to use a sword, and Silk teaching him knife-throwing." 

"Silk and Barak are both at Riva?" Zakath asked curiously. 

"Yes," Senji picked at the bowl of grapes on the table. "Velvet's pregnant again, and since both Ce'Nedra and Polgara are at Riva right now, she wants to be near them just in case." 

Zakath nodded wordlessly. 

"Barak's at Riva mostly because he decided to go with Silk. Unrak also came with his father, because he and Geran are friends, not to mention the whole Bear-Protector thing." Senji scratched his head. "Hmm... everything is Drasnia is fairly standard, and the Tolnedrans are conniving and scheming for money, as usual. Ah, yes. Mayaserena is pregnant, too. The Arends are rather relieved right now, and Korodullin is hovering over his wife. There are the usual squabbles between Asturian and Mimbrate, but no battles or kingdom-wide disputes." 

"Did Mayaserena ever bully the Mimbrates into accepting the Asturian titles?" Zakath asked. 

"Yes," Senji answered, popping another grape in his mouth. "The Asturians are disgruntled that they can't call the Mimbrates noble snots any more, and the whole hiding-out-in-the-forest-in-green thing has kind of lost its novelty." 

"Arends," Zakath shook his head. 

"I agree," Senji said. "Urgit, Rekev, and Belgarath are all working on forming Mishrak ac Thull into a working country. The best thing is that the Thulls are basically peasants, so there's a whole peasant country that Urgit and Rekev are creating." 

"A peasant country?" asked Cyradis curiously. 

"Peasants make wonderful farmers, and woodcutters, and fishermen," Zakath explained. "Urgit and Rekev now have a source of raw material and produce on their side of the Escarpment, with no aspirations for power or urges to seize the market and squeeze it." 

"Nyissa is actually producing medicine, with the few brilliant people they've managed to salvage from the mass of drug-addicts," continued Senji. "I don't think anyone's trying to figure out what to do the Dagashi. They're just sitting there in the middle of the desert, I think." 

Zakath shook his head. "That could be dangerous." 

Senji shrugged. "I think my Master will take care of it. He mentioned speaking with Jaharb sometime soon." He sat down on a couch. "That's basically it. How is Terath?" 

Cyradis' eyes snapped open. "Where is he?" she asked, looking around. "Terath!" 

"Terath!" called Zakath, looking under the curtains. 

Cyradis wrung her hands. "Where could he have gone?" 

"Terath!" yelled Senji, getting down on his hands and knees to peer under the couch. 

They went hunting around the room, looking for the little boy. "Terath!" 

"He has to be in this room," reasoned Senji. 

"Maybe--" Zakath began, looking behind the couch up against the wall, then he laughed suddenly. "Look at this." 

They came over and crowded around it, looking behind it in the crack between the couch and the wall, nearest to the cold fireplace. 

Terath, sucking his thumb, was fast asleep, soot covering his face and arms, and a half-eaten apple beside him. 


	4. Not an Update, Just a Note

Not an Update, Just a Note  
  
Note:  
  
So incredibly sorry, everyone. This summer's been long and I've been neglecting most of my fanfictions. To add to that, I only have internet access one hour a week. But in a week I'll be going back to boarding school, where I have constant internet access. So, please, bear with me, and I'll make every effort to update my stories once I get there. I've got a lot to do this final week, like packing and finishing up all these weird projects I've gotten tangled up in, but within three weeks, I promise, I'll have updates for all of my David Eddings fanfictions-except After the Prophecies, of course. 


	5. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings. The plot is mine._

Note: I'll add more to this chapter, but I wanted to get something_ up._

* * *

** Chapter 4**

"No!" shouted Veren, Imperial Prince of Mighty Tolnedra, eighteen-year-old heir to Ran Borune XXIV. "I will not!"

"It's not up for deliberation, Veren," Varana said. The former Tolnedran general was modestly garbed in common wear, instead of the gold mantel the emperors had the right to don. The blocky-looking man's expression was weary, but his tone was firm.

Veren glared at him. "Father, I do _not_ want to spend my entire afternoon pampering a few spoiled half-humans who have no regard for the might of Tolnedra!"

"And what else would you be doing with your afternoon, Veren?" asked the young prince's father.

"Plenty of things," Veren made a broad gesture. "Hunting with my friends, practicing my swordfighting--"

"Gambling with the soldiers," Varana finished. "None of those are nearly as important as this." He held up a hand as Veren opened his mouth. "You _will_ meet the Dryad ambassadors and be their host for the afternoon. This is the command of the royal throne of Tolnedra."

Veren's face went stiff, and he gave his father a formal bow. "As you command, your Imperial Majesty." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, fuming. He did not want to have to waste his entire afternoon being the host of the Dryads. He didn't understand why it was even so important. After all, what threat could they possibly give to the might of Tolnedra?

His father was a fool to humor them, Veren thought. If the Dryads were out of the way, they could have access to an unlimited hardwood supply. That alone would cover the cost of whatever it took to remove those uncivilized Dryads. 

He shuddered. And now, due to his father, he would have to spend his entire afternoon pampering them. By Nedra, he had better things to do with his time than escort Dryads as they oohed and aahed over ribbons and pretty cloth. Maybe he could shake them off somehow... but then they'd make a terrible fuss and probably go into hysterics.

He shook his head, his mood growing sourer and sourer. There was no way out of it, really. Gloomily, he climbed the steps to the second level of the palace, heading towards the small council chamber where he knew they were waiting. 

There were two of them, he knew that much. Xera, Queen of the Dryads, had not come, but she had sent two of the Dryads closest to her. That, evidently, was the only form of rank they had in their society. If they had a society at all. Veren sniffed disdainfully. 

True, his aunt was a Dryad-but she was only part Dryad. She'd grown up in a civilized country, as an Imperial Princess. Veren wasn't one of the people who thought it was outrageous for the King of Riva to marry a half-human. After all, she was an Imperial Princess, and that ought to be good enough for those Alorn barbarians.

He stopped before the door of the council chamber, and took a deep breath, looking down at his clothes. The green mantle was acceptable for an informal meeting like this. After all, he was only supposed to show them around. He closed his eyes in one last attempt to gather himself, then opened the door and went in, assuming a polite expression.

The two in the room rose unhurriedly as he entered, and he saw they were both very small, only coming up to his shoulder. The first one was fingering the bow she wore across her back, and her hair was a deep, tawny gold that framed her small, exquisite face. Her eyes were bright green, and they watched him with undisguised curiosity and also a hint of sullenness. She seemed very young, but her limbs were clearly mature.

Veren caught himself staring and quickly tore his eyes from her, looking to the second Dryad. This one had red hair and pale skin with a slight greenish tinge, and she too was watching him with curiousity.

He bowed deeply to them. "Veren, Imperial Prince of Tolnedra, at your service," he said formally, his eyes straying back to the tawny-haired one. "My father sent me to show you around the palace, the city, whatever you would wish."

"Xcora," said the red-haired Dryad. "I'm Xera's cousin." Her eyes twinkled suddenly, and she smiled. "I hope we aren't taking up too much of your time."

Veren looked down, flushing suddenly in embarrassment. It was almost as if she knew what he was thinking. "Of course not," he told her. "It's my duty and pleasure as an Imperial Prince."

"Yeah," said the tawny-haired Dryad suddenly. "I guess you do like to throw your title around a lot."

"Xbell!" protested Xcora. "Veren is our host."

Veren looked squarely into Xbell's sulky eyes, meeting them calmly. "Sometimes, Lady Xbell, I wish I wasn't an Imperial Prince. I wasn't born into this position, you know. My father only became a Borune when I was a little boy."

"Just Xbell," she muttered, lowering her eyes.

Veren looked back at Xcora. "Would you like me to show you around the palace or the city first? Or would you like me to take you to your chambers to recover from the journey."

"Our rooms, if you would," Xcora told him. "We would like to wash and change our clothes, if that's not too much trouble."

"Of course not," Veren told her, bowing again. He stepped back and opened the door, holding it for them. "This way, if you please, ladies."

They followed him down the halls to their rooms, which consisted of two bedchambers connected by a small sitting area. Veren made sure the servants knew to bring basins of warm water for each Dryad, and, on second thought, to bring sprigs of the apple tree with blossoms to scent the rooms. He knew how much his aunt loved growing things, and it might make the Dryads more at home.

Before he left, Xcora drew him aside. "Don't mind Xbell," she told him. "She didn't really want to come, and Xera had to make her. She's be in a bad mood for a little while, but I'm sure it will pass."

"I understand perfectly," Veren said, thinking of how his father had had to order _him_ to play host for the Dryads. "I'll be back for you in an hour or so. Is that enough time?"

"It's fine," Xcora told him with a smile. 

"Very well, then." He bowed to her, then departed.


End file.
